The Last Leaf, Part One

I was in the hospital two years ago, in November 2007. It still seems like yesterday somehow. I was depressed, but I was also on a seven med cocktail. I knew my brain was broken, I had spent the entire year doing major volunteer work with my local DBSA chapter, arranging for two "A-List" speakers to come to our struggling group, working on major hypomania, and a spell of extreme mania over the summer. Now it was November, and my brain was trying to come down from the high, and in doing so, was turning against me as it continually flashed suicidal images and thoughts in my head, much like the subliminal words and pictures put in movie theatres back in the Fifties for soda and popcorn.

I was scared and chagrined when my little stuffed panda was removed by the nurses, and I was strip searched before I was allowed into a pair of sweats and slippers. I told them to just take my sneakers, if they removed the shoe laces, they would have to cut leather and I would be out a pair of shoes. The nurse understood. A few minutes later, I was sitting on the bed assigned to me, crying into an old yellow T shirt with the image of Spongebob on it,rumpled up to serve as a makeshift stuffed animal and tear catcher.

I had a lovely, lovely roomate. An elderly woman, in her eighties, suffering from major depression. She was inconsolable about the death of her husband, someone she had been with over sixty five years, most of her entire life. She was a vibrant person before her depression hit her, hit her hard. She was involved in her church, had raised children, and was a grandmother and great grandmother. And she had volunteered for years with her church, ministering to those at Trenton Psychiatric Hospital.

Her minister came one night to visit with several women from her church. They were going to pray, and they asked me if I would like to stay and pray with them. I replied, yes, but I do not have a bible. No worries, sit next to one of the ladies with one. I felt good as the matronly lady made room for me, and gave me a hug. I needed that hug. I had never prayed like that before, but it was the right thing to do at the time, and I felt so much better.

I would spend hours in the bed. I wasn't depressed, but there was nothing else to do. This time, the hospital had been re done, pumped with money from Big Pharma. The TV being left on 24/7 was no more, it was only on from 6-11 in the evening. The rooms were sumptious, as luxurious as the Hyatt a few miles away. But there were no talk therapies, no breaks for the smokers- even if you don't smoke to go outside for five minutes an hour to get some fresh air. There were 30 people on the ward. 21 of them were getting ECT, and I thought of it as a production line. I tried to read the book I had brought in with me- a book by Ben Elton- and just couldn't concentrate enough to read. There wasn't anything to do, and even the monotony couldn't be broken by a smoke break, just to go outside, because the facility was now smoke free.

I would sit forever in a sterile, non-descript faux hotel/industry chair and look out the windows, watching the leaves fall. And as I watched the leaves, gorgeous in their hues of brown, orange and red, fall from their tree, I had a feeling of doom. The birds stopped coming, the squirrels too. Snow came in flurries, and I just watched sunrise after sunset from the chair, until I stuck to the plastic coating and shuffled off to night meds and bed.

(Part Two coming).

Failed anti depressant drug might be marketed as woman's viagra

Well they got the blue pill for men. I guess it was just a matter of time before they had one for women.

These folks aren't lion around

My very first blog award I was given was by a young woman in SF named PhC, who was struggling with HIV. She has dropped off the blogosphere for the last two years, but I want to replay her gift forward. I don't know if she has left this earth, or left the blogosphere, but I miss her.

Here are my awardees for the Golden Lion Award- for their shameless writing and muckraking and inspiration. In no particular order.

Mary, at Letting Go, because when I grow up I want to write like her, with the grace and humility she writes about unpopular things and the 12 Steps.

FP, at Writhe Safely, for the same reason as above, and her latest piece shows her to be a master of words and I wish I could write like her as well.

John at a Storied Mind, because he inspires me with his writing and story telling and enouragement.

Stephany, because she can write with courage and love while describing her youngest daughter struggling, and breaking your heart at the same time. (Bring Kleenex when you visit Stephany, as of late).

Harrad, at Access Denied, for writing so lovely about MS and helping me understand my friend G- who has been struggling with MS her entire life.

Ana, at Just Ana, for being all alone in Brazil by herself and still be able to raise hell.

Fiddy at Seroxat Sufferers for raising hell about the good, bad and ugly in the world, whether it's political or Big Pharma, and for introducing me to Beautiful South, a group I am liking almost as much as Lighthouse Family.

Mark, at Psych Survivor 2.0 because he gives me hope and cares about things, takes time to look at the roses and smell them and cares for squirrels.

Will, at Will Spirit, for writing about such deep complex things with absolute beauty and knowledge.

Bunker at Psychiatry.... for proving the buck stops here, and his first name is D, not Archie.

Stan at Is there something wrong- for having (at least in his blog) the largest set of brass ones I've ever seen to tackle what he tackles, without any sugar coating and using only spell check ( I think) to find some of the things he prints.

Anthony, at My Sick Mind, for having the guts to write about NJ with passion the way I wish I could write with, and for being an interesting guy and fellow (albeit brand new) stripey cat owner.

and Bitter, at My Medicated Cartoon life, for making me smile with his cartoons and then writing such beautiful posts on depression and life, I cannot help but wonder, how someone can draw and write so beautifully at the same time, but can he walk and chew gum at the same time? Please don't close your blog down Bitter. We need you.


I'm done for the year. I was only supposed to give six, but I couldn't narrow it down. Thank you all.

'Despair' gene linked to bipolar disorder, depression and schizophrenia

An interesting article from The Big News Network. Com.

Washington, Nov 14 : A gene, touted as the "despair" gene, which earlier had no relation with mood disorders, has now been found to have a link with bipolar disorder, depression, and schizophrenic conditions, according to pharmacy scientists at the University of Maryland, Baltimore (UMB).

The researchers have identified antidepressant and anti-anxiety behaviours in tests of mice lacking the gene.

The story continues,

"The knockout mice [without the gene] displayed behaviours indicative of changes in mood function, such as increased perseverance and reduced anxiety in open spaces," said Wang.

"We don't yet know why the deletion of the gene altered the mood status of the mice," she added.

Probably a lot more research needs to be done on this.... it seems to be a study in it's infancy, but I am just putting it out there as food for thought, in case this gene does turn out to be a legitimate thing. It might help figure out is being bipolar environmental or biological?

I hope I can know the answer to this in my lifetime.

New Blog Look

Every one deserves a new winter look, my blog just got a make over from my friend Peter. I hope my readers will like the cleaner look, blogroll updates, and streamline.

Thank you Peter!

He can be reached at Blogmakeovers, Inc. and accepts payment in either bullion or feline nom noms. (I paid him in fish flakes).

Depression is the inability to construct a future

I wish I had written this. It was actually written by Rollo May.

Anyway, this is how I feel, right now. I am writing for what it's worth, but cannot finish anything and wrap it up in a nice bow for the kind folks who read me. But I cannot. I don't even want to get out of bed, I don't want to eat. I just feel there is no future for me, nothing to look forward to. The only thing comforting right now is the cat, flipping her tail on my hip bone when I try to sleep, or her soft breathing on my arm if I am on the couch. I am not suicidal, I just feel for the first time in my whole life there is no future for me, no dreams, just banal existence.

Nothing is worse than reading the mediocre writings of someone struggling like this. So I am going to take a a few days, maybe a week from the blog, and just turn off the computer. This blog actually has been my raison d'etre for the last two years, but rather than posting cute fixes and taking away from the blog's theme, I am just going to take a few days off from writing and try to find myself and feel better.

One more blogger who gets it is Bitter Animator.  Check out his blog, if you haven't already.

Lest We Forget

November 11. Veteran's Day.  May we never forget those who gave their lives for us, and those who are fighting right now for us.





Hat tip: Fiddy

I wish I could stop feeling like Percivale

 "Thereafter, the dark warning of our King,
That most of us would follow wandering fires,
Came like a driving gloom across my mind.
Then every evil word I had spoken once,
And every evil thought I had thought of old,
And every evil deed I ever did,
Awoke and cried, 'This Quest is not for thee.'
And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself
Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns,
And I was thirsty even unto death;
And I, too, cried, 'This Quest is not for thee.'

Tennyson, The Idylls of the King.

I have always thought I could be  Percivale the most true and noble of all of Arthur's knights. Going through life thinking you aren't good enough for anything, and if something good should happen to you you still aren't worthy.

Sometimes I feel like I am being punished for past sins. For  sins in this life and in past ones. I have stopped expecting anything good to happen to me. A good day is a day when my brain actually lets me read or watch TV, a bad day is a day where I have a migraine from my med cocktail and stay in bed most of the day. A good day is a day I can call my mother and conversate, a bad day is I cannot even talk.

I don't know what sins I must atone for, if I knew, I would write them down, weave them into a hair shirt and flagellate myself.  But I feel I must have done something, so bad, so horrible in this this life or a past one I cannot get better until I atone.

I once did see the Holy Grail- my version of it, what it would be to me. I saw it for a moment and it was gone.  In fact, here is my whole life put into one haunting song lyric.


"When I was a child,
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb"

Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"

But I don't feel comfortably numb anymore. I feel dead, hollow, stuffed with straw, waiting for the worms or madness which ever comes first.

Dona Noblis Pacem

November 5, 2009


The Peace Globe Gallery

Today, a group of bloggers have decided that today, November 5, 2009 is a blogblast for peace. It is a beautiful thought. I thought of a poster every teenager I knew had over their beds when I was a child. It went like this...

And then all of a sudden, this afternoon, I run out to get some milk, refills on prescriptions, and some nom noms for the cat- and come home. What do I see? In my mail box, "urgent news alerts" from major news organizations, Video news, Print news, American news, International news. All saying the same thing.

"Soldiers open fire at Fort Hood (Texas), 12 killed,  31 wounded."  This could be the biggest massacre the state of Texas has seen since Charles Whitman opened fire at UT-Austin and killed 14 and wounded 32.  The counts are still coming in and it will most likely be slightly higher as the night wears on, and more news is known. Right now they are saying the shooters are other Army soldiers, this might be from Post Traumatic Stress. Take the scene from "Full Metal Jacket"   where Private "Pyle" guns down his Sergeant with his gun, Charlene (that scene still gives me goosebumps), by ten or more soldiers, and you get the idea.

I am not the sharpest bulb in the drawer, but I know so many people who have family serving in this war, or who did serve in previous wars. My dad is a Veteran. But somewhere along the line, when my dad came marching home, and the next generation came marching home, people stopped, or seem to stop caring for Johnny and Janey. Medical help like M*A*S*H units were able to save soldiers and civilians where in previous battles they would have most likely died from their wounds.   Johnny might have gotten his gun, but came home this time, with broken bodies, slowly healing, and broken brains that needed healing.

Just like the intersection in town that claims two or three people a year from car accidents, nothing is done for years until either a very cute child or prominent citizen is killed there. Then it gets the traffic light.

It's time for the traffic light now. It's world peace day, and if it was possible, there wouldn't be anymore wars, people wouldn't judge others by their race or creed or religion and children wouldn't go to bed hungry or have people in their lives who abuse them. I don't know the answers, I just wish we all had that poster on all of our beds.

Peace to those who were murdered today and their families. Peace to us all.

Do dreamers really live forever?

"Loose your dreams and you will loose your mind
In life unkind".
Rolling Stones, "Ruby Tuesday".







I never have had a problem not dreaming. I love dreaming. I keep a tape recorder and a note pad by bed when I wake so I can write down my dreams.

Lately, all my dreams have been like something out of a Jungian nightmare, old family trips, school, all surrounded  in symbols. But nothing about the future. No dreams, no hopes, no nothing.

The other day I got a piece of spam that said in the header 'Are you living or existing". Oh that was easy. Existing. Not living. Because I don't have any dreams to live for. Not anymore.

Or in other words, I do not know what dreams to dream to live for.  The ones I had as a child and a woman in my twenties are gone. I can re build them again, like the Six Million Dollar Man, stronger and better than they were.

"And if your hopes should pass away/
Simply pretend,
That you can build them again". 
Simon and Garfunkel,  "Hazy Shade of Winter".

I always was able to take shattered dreams and rebuild them. Not a problem. Easy.  But now, it's all the dreams have shattered my hands like holding on to broken glass. My writing, bits and pieces, lie in the trash can, like some type of abortion. Just a little mouse click, and they are gone, forever. Little whispy ghosts on the ethernet of the hard drive. I know my illness has turned me into a gifted and talented writer in my 20s, with so much promise and a book offer, to someone who can barely string two sentences together. I doubt now I can even write, let alone see that level again. What do I do if my brain turns on me and this last desire fails?


...Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build....
Anne Sexton, "Wanting to Die".

I'm not suicidal. I just don't know what to do with the remaining 40 years of my life.

How do you rebuild if you don't know what to rebuild in the first place?